My name is Nora, and my world has revolved around the sound of hospital monitors for so long that silence feels wrong.
Adam is ten, and he knows the children’s wing better than any child ever should. He knows which nurse tells the funniest stories and which hallway hides the decent vending machine.
He’s been ill since he was small. Each year got harder, and this last one was almost entirely hospital rooms and quiet “we’ll see” conversations.
I’m raising him alone. My parents are gone, and Adam’s father vanished the moment he learned I was pregnant.
I worked three jobs and still fell short. I folded clothes at dawn, cleaned offices after dark, and made deliveries in between.
I sold my jewelry, skipped meals, and smiled at Adam like terror wasn’t hollowing me out from the inside. I missed rent once and convinced myself it would work out.
Then Dr. Patel called me into that tiny room where doctors deliver life-altering news with careful voices.
He looked worn down, his tone gentle. “If we don’t operate now, he has about five months.”
I stared at his hands so I wouldn’t see the expression on his face. “How much?”
He told me the amount, and my mind refused to process it. Then he added, “You’re short $50,000.”
I nodded as if that number belonged in my life. Inside, I was unraveling.
That night, I sat beside Adam while he slept. His cheeks were thin, his eyelashes too long for how tired he seemed.
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